


Too Much Was Never Enough

by TheWolfQueen



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: <-- you know on the ACD and D'Urberville front, - actually just Jim and Seb being their charming selves - more info in the notes, -ish?, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood Play, Blood and Violence, D'Urberville references at every possible point, Dark, Jim Moriarty being Jim Moriarty, M/M, Marking, Masochism, Minor Character Death, Murder, Ownership, Sadism, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Sebastian Moran, Unhealthy Relationships, trans guy written by a trans guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 15:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14855705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolfQueen/pseuds/TheWolfQueen
Summary: Jim is in A Mood and feels the need to remind Sebastian who he belongs to.





	Too Much Was Never Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Dancing With The Dead by Pain. Alternate title would have been “Red – The Colour Of Love” after the song Rot by the German band Schattenmann. 
> 
> I tagged this as “Abusive Relationship” because essentially that’s what it is. Jim is abusive, their relationship is toxic and unhealthy. (In this/my universe at least. Because that darkness is what made me fall in love with the ship in the first place.) But Sebastian is very much aware of it, and he’s /very much okay with that/. So, I guess, it’s not the “usual” abusive relationship, with Sebastian basically consenting to being manipulated, but I felt like that tag needed to be there all the same. 
> 
> Also, Sebastian is trans in this fic, and will be trans in every fic or drawing of him I make. I’m trans masc as well, so there will be no fetish-y descriptions here. I mention his top surgery scars, but that’s like the extent of the discussion on that topic.
> 
> And because I love the book, there are like ten D’Urberville references in this, bonus points for everyone who finds them :D I could barely keep myself from using the sentence “his head oscillated”.

When Sebastian comes back to himself, he has trouble breathing. Something is tied around his throat, restricting his airflow.

He coughs, blinks, and looks around to see where he is. 

A small room; bare walls, a concrete floor. A single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The steel door is closed. A heater is digging into his back, and his hands are cuffed to the pipes.

He groans. Jim has locked him in the fucking basement again.

Sighing, he takes stock of the different pains in his body trying to recapitulate how he ended up here.

His head hurts, and so does his throat of course. Jim wrapped some kind of rope around his neck and the next best pipe, from the feeling of it. There is pain in his back, both from an old injury acting up and the goddamn heater. When he tries to move his arms to test the give of the cuffs – they don’t give at all of course, fuck you Jim – pain flares in his left shoulder. Oh, right, he’d been shot earlier. 

He can’t turn his head to look at the wound, but it feels like his improvised bandage is still in place. The bullet had only grazed him, so he’s probably not going to die of blood-loss anytime soon. Although it does smell as if he’s bled through the thin scarf he’d wrapped around it. 

His legs are alright, but his heels feel as if they have been repeatedly thumped on the ground. Apparently, Jim has dragged him down the stairs, and his socks didn’t really protect his feet from the stone steps. 

And then there is the fact that he’s aroused. The cold from the floor is seeping through his jeans, and his arse hurts from sitting on the hard underground, but there’s definitely the tell-tale throbbing between his legs. He blames it on the lack of oxygen, he read somewhere that that could lead to arousal even without other stimulation. Yes, contrary to popular belief, he does know how to read.

But back to the question at hand. Why is he in the basement chained to the heating system?

***

The air in the house had been thick for days. Something or someone had sent Jim into one of his moods – the kind that felt like clouds amassing before a thunderstorm, like the sizzling of a fuse before an explosion. The kind that usually ended with someone getting hurt. More often than not, that someone was Sebastian.

But he was okay with that. After all, it was kinda part of the deal. He had known what he had signed up for when he decided to stay with Jim. 

So, he’d kept his head down, busied himself with tasks just this side of superfluous – cleaning already clean weapons and improving already impenetrable security – that allowed him to stay close enough to Jim to be available to carry out any orders, and especially to be there when the lightening finally struck, but well outside the radius where his presence would become an additional annoyance.

He was extra careful when he was sent on jobs these days, no need to set off the thunderstorm sooner than absolutely necessary. 

All in all, it seemed to be working well, the not-really-essential this-person-is-annoying-me killings stayed at a minimum, as far as Sebastian could tell nothing irreplaceable had been broken yet, and Jim hadn’t even set his wasps on anyone.

So, of course Sebastian didn’t think anything of it when he woke to a note giving him place and time of a job long overdue.

That guy had been trying to meddle with their business for a while now, and despite Sebastian’s repeated request to just let him shoot that guy, Jim had preferred to try one of his usual convoluted schemes. 

Which apparently hadn’t worked, considering that Sebastian now got to shoot the bastard after all.

After a short shower and breakfast, he carefully packed the things he needed. He looked around the house for Jim, but without success. Considering his mood over the last few days, that was concerning. There was no note, no hint, where he might have gone, and he didn’t answer his phone. If the storm broke loose now, Sebastian had no way of reaching him. Devil knows what might happen.

He was still thinking about potentially disastrous outcomes when he arrived at the address Jim had given him.

It was an abandoned apartment building, with a sagging roof, broken windows, and a kicked-in door. Number 13, in a row of similarly shabby houses. At least the stair was still intact, and even in the attic Sebastian didn’t get the feeling that he might crash through the floor anytime soon.

From the window he had a good look at the house across the backyard. The paint was peeling off the window frames, but it was in a better state than the one Sebastian was currently unpacking his rifle in.

His target was supposed to be in the top flat, into which he had a perfect view. Or rather, would have had, if it hadn’t been for the paper screens in all windows. Sure, they didn’t protect the inhabitants from bullets, but he couldn’t reliably shoot someone he couldn’t fucking see.

He thought about just getting up and leaving. Devil knows what Jim expected him to do here. In the mood he was in, he probably thought it was funny.

But a glance at his watch told him that it was still ten minutes until the time Jim had written down. So, he decided to wait.

He kept his eyes on the relevant windows, the rifle loaded and ready. With slow breaths he forced his body into calm and his mind to focus.

The minutes ticked by, but he hardly noticed how long he was perched in the warm, dusty room. 

At exactly the time Jim had given him, one of the paper screens was moved. Sebastian raised the rifle, bringing the scope to his eye. The blurred face came into focus, and he grinned. Fanny, one of the girls Jim used for menial tasks, busied herself with cleaning supplies. Behind her, people were moving. A man sat at the desk at the back of the room. Sebastian could barely see him, but well enough to identify him as the target.

He aimed for the head, waited for a clear shot, and steadily pulled the trigger. The kill made, he hurried to unload and disassemble the rifle, putting it back into the bag, and made his way out of the building as fast as possible. Before the chaos in the flat across subsided enough for them to start the search for the killer.

At the door, he hesitated. Outside, two men were talking.

“What did the Irish guy on the telephone say, again? Was it number 13 or 14?”

Sebastian didn’t think anything about it, and when the voices took off towards the next house, he slipped out of the door.

And realized his mistake. He looked pretty much directly at a police car. Two officers stood halfway between the houses 13 and 14 and stared at him. When they reached for their guns, Sebastian turned on his heels and ran.

Two shots rang out, and he heard them chase him. Another shot, and pain flared in Sebastian’s left shoulder. He clenched his teeth and turned around a corner on a footpath. Pressing the other hand against his wound he sprinted towards his car.

He threw the bag into the passenger seat and drove off. The officers stood at the street, staring after him, and despite the pain he laughed.

His left hand was clenched around the steering wheel, while he searched the glove compartment for something to stop the bleeding. He got hold of a cotton scarf he had forgotten a while ago, and messily tied it around the wound one-handed. Not much, but it would hold for the moment.

The sound of police sirens followed Sebastian, and he cursed. He took every detour he could think of. Thank goodness he used faked plates. At the same time, he wondered where the fuck the cops had come from. He remembered what they had said outside – about an Irish guy.

Jim wouldn’t – he stopped the thought right there. Yes, Jim _would_ send the police after him if he felt like it. And in the mood he was in, nothing was impossible. The little bastard.

It only took a couple of minutes to lose the police, but he drove around for almost half an hour before heading home. If he brought the cops with him now, Jim might just kill him. For that, he might actually kill Sebastian.

When he finally got back to the house, he carefully sat down the bag with his rifle, kicked his shoes into a corner, and shouted: “JIM MORIARTY, DID YOU SET THE FUCKING COPS ON ME?”

Because in this moment, he didn’t care. Jim’s mood didn’t matter, whatever Jim might do to him didn’t matter, he wanted an explanation _now_.

Jim came down the stairs. He had a suspiciously calm air about him, as if he knew exactly what was up.

“Well, Sebby, why would I do that?” He paused a couple of steps above the ground, deliberately, so Sebastian had to look up at him.

“I don’t know! Why do you do anything? Because you thought it’s funny?” Sebastian was getting himself into a rage. “They fucking shot me!”

One look at Jim’s face answered his question. The grin that broke through the fake innocence made him want to punch him.

“You fucking cunt”, Sebastian grumbled.

“Language, Sebby, language”, Jim sing-songed as he hopped down the last steps.

“Fuck you, Jim”, he spat back. He turned towards the bathroom to properly care for his shoulder wound, when he felt the familiar pinprick at the side of his neck.

It was one of Jim’s favourite inventions, a narcotic he used on Sebastian every once in a while, that knocked someone out within seconds without leaving any permanent damage.

Sebastian would have tried to stop Jim from injecting him with it, but in addition to being scarily quiet when he walked, Jim had also always been faster than him.

***

So, the next thing he knows is that he’s sitting in the fucking basement.

He would bang his head against the heater in frustration, but he can’t even move enough for that. Shouting for Jim would be equally futile. He tried that once, shouted until his throat was sore, and apparently Jim hadn’t heard a single sound.

Nothing he can do except wait.

He doesn’t know how long he sits in the basement, but it can’t be longer than half an hour. His hands are slowly going numb, and he still can’t get as much oxygen into his lungs as he would like, but at least he can move his legs, so his arse doesn’t go numb as well.

He wonders whether he’ll be down here all night, when the door opens, and there is Jim. A scalpel in his hand, and a dark look on his face.

Sebastian exhales slowly. Here they are. The storm is about to break loose.

“I think I need to remind you of something, Tiger”, Jim says – quietly, deliberately. 

His choice of words already tells Sebastian where this is going.

Jim had called him Tiger when they first met. Sebastian had offered his old army nickname – Basher – instead, but Jim had stuck with Tiger. Or Kitten, when he was feeling particularly condescending. Over time, Sebastian has gotten used to and admittedly quite fond of the name.

But it also evokes very specific memories, and most of them have something to do with pain.

His breathing goes flat as Jim slowly walks into the room. The door bangs shut behind him.

The lazy thrum of arousal is back, and the light-headedness does nothing to dampen it.

Jim sits down, his knees on either side of Sebastian’s thighs. He grabs Sebastian’s shoulder for balance, his fingers digging into the wound with too much precision for it to be anything but intentional. 

Sebastian clenches his teeth and tries not to scream, which earns him a condescending smirk.

There’s a certain precision to Jim’s movements that doesn’t bode well. The way he’s handling the scalpel, the way he looks at it, makes Sebastian want to curse him, to tell him to fuck off. To beg him to get on with it.

Because if he wasn’t at least a bit of a masochist he’d left Jim – and his bed in particular – a long time ago.

But he keeps his mouth shut. Which has partly to do with the rope around his neck. But time also taught him that it’s easier not to push Jim any further once he gets to this point. A deep scar dangerously close to his femoral artery tells that story.

Jim is quiet, he often gets quiet when he’s like this. With three quick, precise cuts, Sebastian’s shirt is in pieces. At least the makeshift bandage is left in place.

Slowly, lightly, Jim trails the blade across Sebastian’s chest. Across his scars.

There are more scars on his body than he can count. But only a few of them have any significance. There are his top surgery scars – not his first scars, but the first that meant anything, allowing him to finally see himself when he looked into the mirror. The long claw marks the tiger left, which ended his time in India, his time in the army, and almost his life. And finally, there are the letters JM, just under his left collarbone.

Sebastian wants to press himself into the blade, but Jim pulls it back, as if he sensed the movement before Sebastian made it.

The scalpel clinks against Sebastian’s dog tags. He isn’t quite sure why he still wears them, but to this day they’re the last thing he takes off before bed and the first thing he puts on in the morning.

“I think you need a reminder who you belong to”, Jim says, quietly, and the sharp edge of the blade digs into the starting point of the J.

Sebastian’s breath hitches, and he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

Usually he might mock Jim for his words. He can’t seriously think Sebastian would ever forget that he’s _his_ and will remain his forever.

But it’s hard to think with the rope still wrapped around his throat, and the pain in the shoulder wound. With the persistent, subliminal arousal, and Jim slowly – oh, so slowly – cutting open the scar that has barely healed from the last time Jim felt the need to reinforce his ownership.

Sebastian thinks he can feel the skin split around the blade. A thin rivulet of blood runs down his chest. No matter what happens, this scar will stay with him forever.

Jim lifts the blade away from the bloody, burning J. Sebastian’s breath is coming fast, trying to get as much air as possible into his lungs. His eyes slide shut as he focuses on the pain. Relishes it. It’s so different from the throbbing in his shoulder. Sharper. Clearer.

He feels Jim move, but his mind is fuzzy, his thoughts blurry.

“Keep your eyes open, Tiger”, Jim whispers into his ear.

Following the order is a struggle, requiring a concentration Sebastian only barely possesses in this moment. He has to blink multiple times to get Jim back into focus.

“Good boy”, hums Jim, and puts the blade back to Sebastian’s skin. Most of his anger seems to have dissolved already, much faster than usual, without punches, without shouting, without broken things. Maybe sending the cops after Sebastian was just that effective as an outlet for it.

The blade bites into the corner of the M and Sebastian's exhale sounds suspiciously like a moan.

"Remember this, Tiger, I _own_ you", says Jim, with that certain tone, where all the sugary sweetness in his voice doesn't entirely mask the threat underneath. "I can do to you whatever I want. And if I want to put the cops on your track, I can do that, and you don't complain, because I. Own. You."

And just like that, the M is red and bleeding and perfect again. And Sebastian isn't sure if he should thank or curse the guy who first thrust him into the gravitational pull of Jim Moriarty.

Sebastian's breathing is ragged, and when he tries to talk, no words come from his mouth.

Finally, Jim shows a little mercy, and with one quick, precise slash across his throat cuts through the rope. And just the rope, Sebastian's relieved to notice. He half expected to choke on his own blood. The first deep breath is like heaven.

"I should just fucking leave you", Sebastian rasps out, his voice hoarse, not solely because of the rope.

Jim looks at him with an indulgent smile, but steel in his eyes.

"I'd kill you if you tried." There is not even the slightest hint of humour in his words, and Sebastian's stomach goes hollow for a second.

He struggles against the cuffs. He wants to reach for Jim, to pull him into a kiss, to dig his fingers into his bony shoulders and never let go of him again.

"I know", he says, and it comes out like a vow, with a reverence that makes Jim smile.

He bends forward, his lips touching the letters on Sebastian's chest, coming away red with blood.

After everything Jim has just done to him, the sight makes Sebastian _want_. He strains against his bonds, wanting - needing - to get closer to Jim. It's moments like this that remind him just how much Jim Moriarty owns him.

On their first meeting Jim had diagnosed him with an "addiction to danger" and over time Sebastian had come to realize the truth in those words.

Here he is, with Jim perched over him with blood on his lips and on the blade beside him, Jim, who is danger personified, and isn't even fazed by the power of his addiction anymore.

"Open the damn cuffs", he growls, and is almost surprised when Jim actually reaches for his wrist. He has to rise up a little on his knees and it becomes obvious that Jim is just as affected by this as Sebastian is.

Sebastian wants to get his mouth on the bulge in those suit trousers, but there's something he wants more.

As soon as his hand is free, he grabs the back of Jim's head and crushes their lips together.

He licks his own blood from Jim's lips, moaning at the taste.

The keys clutter to the ground, as Jim fists one hand in the longer hair at the top of Sebastian's head, and digs the other into the shoulder wound - again.

The pain makes him gasp, and he feels Jim grin. 

“I fucking hate you”, he murmurs. Sometimes he shouts these words at Jim, almost meaning them, at times like earlier, when one of Jim’s schemes got him a little too deep in danger for his comfort once again. Because as much as he loves the risk, he is not exactly a fan of being send on jobs that might just turn out as suicide missions. But most times he only says them because there’s nothing better to say. No way he could actually articulate his feelings towards Jim. But then again, he doesn’t have to.

“I know”, Jim says, and Sebastian knows he understands him anyway.

And maybe that’s part of why he’s still here. Because in the whole world, he doubts there’s someone else who understands him so completely. Who looks at him and _sees_. Sees _everything_. 

Jim pulls back, smoothing down Sebastian’s hair again. 

“Now, tell me, Sebby, who do you belong to?”

“You”, Sebastian answers without hesitation. He raises his hand, touching the bloody letters, feeling the pain. “I belong to you.”

_Forever and always._

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written in a while, and never something like this. Basically, this is entirely self-indulgent and probably a little disconnected at times, but I hope you liked it.
> 
> Btw, my headcanon here is that Sebastian fucked up his back when he was binding too much and too long (and probably not necessarily with a binder) when he was a teenager.
> 
> I don’t usually write in present tense, so please tell my if fucked up the tenses somewhere^^ Actually, since English isn’t my first language, feel free to tell me if you notice /any/ mistakes.


End file.
